Chapter 1 - I really tried...

I REALLY tried to lose weight, I promise!

After it got so hard walking up stairs, my belly slapping my thighs, sweat breaking out on my forehead, everything jiggling, I knew something had to change. I didn't want to get thin again, still soft, just less fat. Down to double my starting weight. Down to just plain obese.

So I dieted — I started having salads with grilled chicken instead of salads with extra fried chicken, drenched in double dressing and double cheese. I started having Diet Coke instead of regular, and two cookies instead of four. I started actually looking at portions instead of trying to exceed them as much as I could. Half a bag of chips. One hot dog. Two beers.

And guess what? It kind of worked! I dropped about 20 pounds, enough to actually fit into most of my clothes. Enough that shapewear worked again. I could button a size 18 with just a little bit of muffin top — barely even plus-sized!

My friend was my "accountability partner." We both needed to lose weight. We talked weekly about our progress... she was eating barely anything, dropping pounds at an incredible rate. She wanted to get back down to just what she weighed in high school, where she was the chubby girl in the friend group — around 150, and she was doing great. I'd always been the skinny girl -- a multi-sport athlete who could run a mile without breaking a sweat and could pull myself up a rope in seconds. I had defined abs and strong arms and thick but toned thighs. I told her I actually liked a little extra padding, so my goal would be the same, 150. Fifty pounds more than I'd been back then. We would do it together. And, for a while, we did.

But I kept looking at sites like this, and getting myself off to women twice my size, and fantasizing about more and more weight and fat and softness. I hated the idea of only having handfuls of fat instead of a belly that fully touched the bed or chair when I sat with my legs spread. I hated the idea of thighs that didn't ripple when I walked, and tits that didn't overflow every bra I put on. I hated the idea of ever even trying to run a mile again.

So my friend kept losing weight, and I started sneaking snacks. Just an extra piece of cake here and there, or maybe a burger delivered late at night. Maybe another beer, or a sugary cocktail, or a whole cheese plate all to myself. Maybe all the lasagna I'd prepared for the week. Maybe an extra burger, on top of the first one. Maybe that whole bag of chips. So, very quickly, I started to gain back the weight I'd lost. My metabolism was fucked — I'd lost close to 40 pounds at this point and already put back on 15. I was stuffing my face, ravenous, masturbating to all the women online whose bodies I loved.

I'm at the age where many of my friends are getting pregnant. I wrote on here once that, at a baby shower, my belly measured bigger than a friend's did just weeks before she gave birth. Now, I was getting smaller. Sure, my belly was still heavy, entering every room before I did, and I'm sure some people still thought I was pregnant when I wore the right clothes. It wasn't like I ever got thin. But I missed the looks and the smiles and resting my hand on my huge belly, or supporting my back to jut it out, or walking in heels just to make it jiggle. I missed wearing dresses and having the patterns stretch so thin they were almost unrecognizable. I missed being the biggest girl in the room.

So I started doing what I do — grazing. Not actively gaining, not trying to get fatter, just eating anything in front of me. And I started making sure there were always snacks in front of me. The small sized candies in my desk turned into king-size bars. A fast food snack turned into a meal, then two meals. Then dinner. Then dessert. God, I love to eat.

My bras got tight again, then my pants, then my dresses. I started wearing the smallest things I owned again at home, feeling my rounding belly swell when I ate and just wanting more.

It's been a long time since I actively tried to gain, just letting my body plateau where it was happy, staying fat but not getting fatter. Now, gaining it all back slowly, I felt SO good. Softening, widening, realizing how much I hoped for new red, visible stretch marks. How much I wanted new clothes with another X in front of the size. I would lie in bed and fuck myself for so long, fantasizing about more, the way I used to do.

So now I'm almost back up to my weight when I started all of this— not quite, but only ten pounds off. My belly slaps against my thighs again. It pools on the bed again, and stretches fabric, and is constantly full. And now I know how much more I want — how much I want my belly to grow and swell and expand. I don't just want to look pregnant, I want to look bursting with twins, with huge thighs and massive tits and an undeniable double chin that swallows my neck. I want to be insatiable. I want to outgrow everything I own. I want to double my starting BMI, not just my starting weight.

I'm not going to do this quickly — I'm still going to go slow and listen to my body — but I don't want that body to ever be small again. I want to look constantly knocked up, a huge belly entering rooms before I do. I want to feel completely out of breath after one flight of stairs. I want to wake up after a food coma and feel my belly rising and falling above me, completely unable to see my feet. I want to shock people with my calorie intake and make them stare at my growing gut as I take in more and more and grow fatter.

So yes, I lost weight. But tonight my dinner is a full bag of chicken strips (nearly two pounds), a full box of Mac and cheese, a bottle of wine, and a huge salad drowning in dressing. It may take years, but I will keep growing.